Sleepmonger,deathmonger,with capsules in my palms each night,eight at a time from sweet pharmaceutical bottlesI make arrangements for a pint-sized journey.I'm the queen of this condition.I'm an expert on making the tripand now they say I'm an addict.Now they ask why.WHY!

Don't they know that I promised to die!I'm keeping in practice.I'm merely staying in shape.The pills are a mother, but better,every color and as good as sour *****.I'm on a diet from death.

Yes, I admitit has gotten to be a bit of a habit-blows eight at a time, socked in the eye,hauled away by the pink, the orange,the green and the white goodnights.I'm becoming something of a chemicalmixture.that's it!

My supplyof tabletshas got to last for years and years.I like them more than I like me.It's a kind of marriage.It's a kind of war where I plant bombs insideof myself.

YesI tryto **** myself in small amounts,an innocuous occupatin.Actually I'm hung up on it.But remember I don't make too much noise.And frankly no one has to lug me outand I don't stand there in my winding sheet.I'm a little buttercup in my yellow nightieeating my eight loaves in a rowand in a certain order as inthe laying on of handsor the black sacrament.

It's a ceremonybut like any other sportit's full of rules.It's like a musical tennis match wheremy mouth keeps catching the ball.Then I lie on; my altarelevated by the eight chemical kisses.

What a lay me down this iswith two pink, two orange,two green, two white goodnights.Fee-fi-fo-fum-Now I'm borrowed.Now I'm numb.